


Broken, Beat & Scarred

by vannja



Series: Broken Beat & Scarred [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Red Hood: Lost Days
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 12:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vannja/pseuds/vannja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are Jason Todd.</p><p>You're almost beginning to forget what it was like before, and that is perfect, right like the way you're becoming. Right like a straight razor against your cheek, in leather bomber jacket made specifically for you, right like a gun in your hand, and your existence entirely your own cause. </p><p>Second person POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken, Beat & Scarred

You remember.

You remember exactly what it was like, in the void of fight and survive, when you were supposedly a vegetable. You couldn't ever *forget* what it was like there, because it was perfect, right in a way you never had before then. Not even when you were flying across city tops, in a suit made for someone else, not acing that first exam, and not even when you had your brief existence within a family. 

You remember the fighting, even if you didn't really know who you were actually fighting, and you remember the soft touches to your arm, the simple acceptance from that feeling. You remember soothing words, and sad words, even when they didn't make sense. You remember them for no other reason, other then it was *okay* to just be, past the expectations. 

And then came the anger. 

Oh, you were always a little angry. Angry at the prick that beat on your mom, beat on you. Angry at the scars you had to carry, at the weight on your shoulders too early, at being forced to survive. Angry at how god damned wrong the world was, at how god damned wrong *you* were, even when you didn't know why. 

Honestly, you didn't even realize what was wrong with you until much later, and that pissed you off even more. 

Broken knuckles, giving pinpricks of pain, broken Robins, and when you saw how fuckin' *right* the replacement actually was, and you looked back at the reasons you hadn't been, and it suddenly seems…obvious. Well, sometimes things make *more* sense after the pit. 

You cut your hair for the first time in what seems like *forever* in a convenience store bathroom outside of the airport when you land in Gatwick. You should be fifteen, but your probably closer to seventeen or eighteen, you haven't really been paying that much attention to dates (hard to do through the *anger* and *Bruce*, *Batman*, *dad* pandemonium going through your fucking head). 

You remember, your mom had liked to comb her fingers through it, even when she was high. 

So, you cut it short. Shorter then good-boy Grayson, short. You make it *replacement* short. *Robin* short, and you make it ragged and messy, with a pair of scissors you stole, and you leave the inky, straight strands where they fall. 

You're in Prague, between Talia's teachers, when you start taking vocal lessons, and pick up your old habit of smoking (a habit you never really kicked- the smoke soothing in its smell, reminding you of mom, and dad, and *home*, more then Alfred's cooking ever did). You learn to do different things with your voice, how to pitch it different. How humid climates make things harder and you have to use your diaphragm more, how you have to make your voice boom and not go quiet (into that dark night, you laugh to yourself).

Talia seems amused with your choice of lessons, but she's the closest thing to a friend you've had in a long time. You aren't stupid- couldn't have been Robin if you were. You know she's trying to stall you, amused, and amazed, and probably a bit afraid of your cunning, of the bits of green scattered at the edge of your mind. 

You people watch for a week straight. Live out of abandoned buildings in Rome, and just sit back and watch. You let yourself become part of the scenery, you follow people at night. Tourists, locals, police, criminals. You creep behind without being seen, mimicking, practicing, until you can buy a pack of smokes with a 'thank you, sir, please come again.'.

You change your name officially by the time you hit Moscow. Well, officially you are dead. You change the name on your fakes, and Talia is looking at you different. No less amused, amazed, or afraid, but like you've caused her some trouble. And you grin at her, teeth and cock-sure smile and a hint of what the crowbar did to you and what you'll do to them. 

When you put Egon down like the dog he is, you start to see something new in Talia's features. She's hiding it well, but you were pretty fluent in 'Bruce' before your untimely demise, and while you never saw it in *him* in the last several months (days, *years*-semantics), you can read it clear in Talia al Ghul. 

Pride. 

Talia gives the best fucking birthday presents. More then just the guns, ammo, instructors (or *victims*, you just prefer to think of them as *practice*), and more then the money, food, shelter, and the *means* to survive.She has more acceptance in her then people give her credit for. Or she may be jealous. Jealous of the choices you can make that she can't.

When Talia asks you to *punish* him, then kisses you, you damn well *take* your right of passage, never mind you've never done anything of the sort with anybody before (the opportunity never presented itself, and you don't delude yourself, you know how people in this side of the world treat people like you). You grew up in Gotham's underbelly, you damn well *know* what your doing. You've been through Gotham's dirt, seen through her smog and stink for so long there's no way to delude yourself into thinking Talia isn't seeing Bruce when you make her cum over and over again. S'okay, you're attracted to men anyway. You aren't even imagining anyone in particular when you fuck her, cause you're *still* so fucking angry that you can go all night and well into the morning. Her nails and her bites and bitter remorse are all you need to get yourself off. Feed your own green pit of *rage*, almost as good as putting a knife between someone's ribs.

You return to Gotham changed. Better or worse is anyone's guess, but at least the change is working for you, and not against you.

You took a risk, coming here. You stare at the tombstone.

You point your fingers at the grave, cock your thumb, and blow an imaginary hole in the name, smirk stretched over white teeth and flash burns and pale scars. You mock the pile of crap that is the grave, and *in* the grave. You curse and swear and laugh almost hysterically, and laugh harder when you point out that the person six feet under is *defective*, is *wrong* and built *wrong* and thats fucking coming from *you* of all people.You let yourself be hateful and spiteful, spit on the grave, slam your fist into the tombstone until your knuckles are raw under your glove, until you can almost imagine your blood splattered on the tombstone like it was on the person before the clock hit zero.

You remember.

You remember exactly what it was like, as you pour your handful of shell casings onto the grave.You're almost beginning to forget what it was like before, and that is perfect, right like the way you're becoming. Right like a straight razor against your cheek, in leather bomber jacket made specifically for you, right like a gun in your hand, and your existence entirely your own cause. 

You turn and walk away. You are Jason Peter Todd, and you will never go back to that.

 

\--  
"Juliette Patricia Todd  
Beloved Daughter and Sister  
Taken too soon."  
\--


End file.
